


Black Coffee with the Black Widow

by the_random_writer



Category: Bourne (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Coffee Shops, Crossover, F/M, Moscow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirill goes for a cup of coffee and bumps into an old flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Coffee with the Black Widow

Kirill heaved a frustrated sigh and leaned out to check on the length of the queue. He was quite sure autumn had come and gone and come again in the time since he'd entered the store. What the fuck were the incompetent assholes behind the counter even doing? Were any of them in any danger of actually making or selling coffee? Or, as was so often the case these days, were they all simply milling around, scratching their useless asses and trying to avoid doing anything that vaguely resembled work?

None of these dawdling, shiftless grunts would last a single hour in his shoes, much less an entire day.

Then again, he probably had no right to complain, since he wasn't exactly having the most productive of mornings himself. He'd spent most of the previous night perched on the rooftop of an abandoned building with his Dragunov SVDN, freezing his Russian balls off, waiting to make a hit on a man who was known to be selling sensitive government information. Unfortunately, for reasons still unexplained, the target had declined to appear, and the round with his name on it remained unused.

So Kirill was cold, tired, hungry, extremely pissed off and absolutely _not_ in the mood to be even remotely patient. If he didn't get a steaming hot cup of his favourite coffee into his system in the next five minutes, he was going to remove his gun from his pocket and think about who he wanted to shoot. The list would start with anyone unlucky enough to be wearing the uniform of a Starbucks barista. He might allow one of the women to live—someone to pass his frustrations along to others. Either the blonde with the luscious legs or the redhead with the perky tits.

Slowly and surely, the ragged queue gradually shuffled towards the till. When a counter finally opened for him (the redhead, he was pleased to see), the well-dressed woman standing behind him unwisely attempted to steal his turn. He grabbed her firmly by a Chanel-clad elbow and gave her his best murderous glare; a look that made it abundantly clear he would gut and strangle her in an alley if she did not return to her place in the line. She quickly pulled her arm away and gave him her own haughty stare in return, but sensibly chose to follow his unspoken commands.

The need to spill blood averted, Kirill placed and paid for his order, then moved to the side to wait for his coffee to be delivered. It arrived within a couple of minutes, and for once, exactly as he'd asked—scalding hot, strong as death, black as night and filled to a centimetre below the brim. Good. Nothing made his trigger finger twitch as much as a Starbucks barista who couldn't follow four extremely simple instructions. Except perhaps a bartender who didn't know how to pull a decent pint of plain.

He picked up his drink, turned away and almost walked straight into the back of a petite, slender, flame-haired woman. A small amount of the precious liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup to decorate the toes of his boots. Sensing a near miss behind her, the woman slowly turned towards him, and he opened his mouth, ready to tell the silly cow that she really needed to get the fuck out of his way. Then he finally saw her face, and swore creatively under his breath. _Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine…_

His grouchy mood completely vanished. This _more_ than made up for the lengthy wait.

"Natalia Alianovna," he proclaimed, flashing her his most winning smile. "Imagine meeting you in here, of all places. How very wonderful it is to see you again."

Natalia arched a slender, sardonic, perfectly manicured brow. "Kirill Alexandrovich, what a lovely surprise," she said, in a tone that had nothing lovely about it.

The two of them stood there for a few moments, steaming cups of coffee in hand, quietly sizing each other up and trying to think of something to say.

It was Kirill who eventually ended the silence. "You look good," he told his old flame, and unusually for him, there were no unctuous lies in his words. Five years on, and from what he could see, she hadn't aged so much as a day.

"Thanks, you too," she countered with a hint of a smile.

He knew she wasn't lying, either. He was in his early thirties now, so no longer the youngest or freshest man in the game, but he'd never been in fitter, tougher or meaner shape. Natalia would have recognized that as soon as she turned around.

More silence.

Kirill summoned another smile. "So, Natalia. What brings you into Moscow today?" he asked, keeping the conversation light and away from more contentious topics.

"Work," was all she said.

He nodded sagely but made no attempt to elicit further information. In their line of business, it was never a sensible idea to ask too many probing questions. Some people thought knowledge was power, but for him, ignorance was truly bliss. What he didn't know couldn't later be held against him, or even worse, used as a reason to order his death.

Picking up on what he'd inferred, Natalia frowned and shook her head. "No, Kirill, not that kind of work," she quickly explained. "I don't do that anymore."

Kirill sighed and nodded again. He'd heard all of the terrible rumours. It was disappointing to have them confirmed, especially by the subject herself. "I am sorry to hear that, Natashen'ka," he said in a sombre tone. "You were one of the best." He purposely used the past tense and the most intimate form of her name, trying to provoke her into an angry response. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it—teasing the spider was just so much fun. And he also remembered how sexy she was when she lost her composure even slightly.

Sadly, his efforts went completely to waste. "I still am, Kirill," she replied, her voice perfectly calm and controlled. "I just do another kind of work now. Better work. For better reasons. With better people."

He heard the dig in her final remark but decided for once to let it slide. As Natalia almost certainly knew, he was one of the best at what he did, so she must mean better than him in the ethical sense, and really, who in their right mind gave a shit about _that_? He was a highly-skilled, highly-paid, government controlled assassin, not a candidate for beatification.

The uneasy silence resumed.

This time, it was Natasha who brought it to an end. "Your grandmother?" she politely enquired.

"Alive and well," Kirill replied. "Still living in that shitty apartment in Novokosino, telling everyone in a ten mile radius that I am the spawn of Satan himself."

"I'm surprised."

"What, that she believes I am the spawn of Satan?" On that, his grandmother wasn't wrong.

"No, that she's still alive."

Kirill gave a nonchalant shrug. "What can I say? She survived the Battle of Stalingrad and outlived the Soviet Union. She is obviously a tough old bird."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I thought perhaps you might have killed her by now."

"Alas, no," he said with a dramatic sigh. "I have occasionally considered it, but she _is_ my only living relation." He flashed her a mischievous grin to show her he was only joking. Okay, _mostly_ joking. He loved his babushka Maria very much, but that didn't mean he wouldn't smother her in her sleep if she ever started to weigh him down.

"My grandmother was extremely fond of you, Natashen'ka," Kirill solemnly revealed. "She missed you dreadfully when you left. She was very angry that I did not pursue you and attempt to win you back. She told me I was a fool."

Natasha snorted. "Smart woman. You _are_ a fool."

Kirill winced and grinned again. There was the Natalia he knew and loved. His beautiful but deadly spider.

He dropped his chin towards his chest and gave her a dejected look. "It was not just my grandmother, Natashen'ka. I missed you too," he quietly confessed, abandoning his resolution to stay away from more contentious topics.

Strangely, Natasha seemed completely unmoved by his declaration of bygone affection. "I can't say that I felt the same way," she said.

"You didn't even leave me a farewell letter," Kirill complained, pouting slightly.

"You're lucky I didn't leave you a farewell bullet."

"You are saying that you wanted to _kill_ me?"

She nodded. "Or at least give you a horrible scar."

Kirill grunted in frustration. "Natashen'ka, my love, I do not understand your anger. We were so _good_ together. The missions we completed. The strategic objectives we achieved. The enemies we eliminated. And my God, all of the hot, filthy sex we had. How can you not at least remember that? What did I do to wound you so deeply, that you cannot think well of our time as a couple, and actually wish to do me harm?" he asked, his brows furrowed in genuine confusion. He'd never been particularly good at reading women (perhaps because he'd never taken the time to learn), but surely he hadn't gotten her _this_ wrong?

Natasha frowned, gently leaned her head to one side and stared off slightly into space, mentally preparing her list.

And she'd had five whole years to pull it together. Oh, God. Him and his big mouth.

"Well, let me think about that for a moment, Kirill. You borrowed my favourite gun and never gave it back. You used one of my most expensive dresses to wipe some blood off your boots. You tried to poison the neighbour's dog because the barking kept you awake. You wanted us to have a threesome with the waitress from your favourite bar. You clipped your toenails in bed. You never put the toilet seat down. You were never on time for _anything_. You insulted my father. Oh, and maybe because you were an arrogant, selfish, egotistical, manipulative, psychotic jerk."

"I did not insult your father," he protested.

He wisely made no objection to any of her other complaints.

"Yes, Kirill. You did."

"No, Natalia. I did not."

"So you don't remember the argument we had on the flight from Chisinau to Geneva?"

He pursed his lips in concentration. He remembered doing _something_ on that government jet, but arguing definitely wasn't it.

She kindly provided another prompt. "The argument where you made fun of my father's name and told me he wasn't a proper Russian?"

Kirill grunted and rolled his eyes. Yes, of course. _That_ argument.

Mother of God. Was she really bringing that silly squabble up all over again? What the hell was the problem with women, that they remembered every damn thing you did or said, and could never learn to let stuff go? Bad enough that she was dragging the argument up for a second pass, but even worse, it wasn't him who was in the wrong.

"I am sorry, Natalia," he started stiffly, "but I still believe there is some truth in what I said. What kind of patronymic is Alianovna? I have never heard of it, except from you. It is not an authentic Russian name. Kirill? Yes. Alexander? Yes. Natalia? Yes. But _Alian_? _"_ He paused to sneer. "Absolutely not."

Natasha made no verbal response but tightened her fingers around her cup and speared him with a malevolent glare.

Kirill sensed he'd said too much. Perhaps a peace offering of a kind would help to smooth things over between them. "I still have your Walther P99," he said, patting the bump in his jacket pocket. "It is a very reliable gun, so I use it all the time for work, but if you want it back, I will give it up."

"Keep it," was her brusque advice. "I bought a new one."

He decided to try another approach. "Perhaps I could take you out for dinner tonight?" he suggested. "The hostess at White Rabbit owes me a favour. Am quite sure I could get us a good window table." He'd intended to redeem the favour in a more energetic way, but Natalia didn't need to know that.

She quickly shook her head to decline. "Sorry, I have other plans."

"What about tomorrow night, then?" he counter-proposed, not quite ready to give up on his prize.

Another shake. "Sorry, I have other plans tomorrow night as well."

"Should I even _ask_ about Saturday night?"

"Only if you want me to shoot you."

Kirill grinned and flashed his brows. "I actually might enjoy that."

"Not if I shoot you in the balls."

"But think of the damage that would do," he protested. To him, _and_ to the city's female population.

She flashed him a malicious smile. "Exactly."

Kirill sighed in gracious but reluctant defeat. He was a stubborn and determined man, especially when it came to dangerous and beautiful women, but even he could tell when the horse was dead.

"Then I think there is nothing more for us to say to each other, Natashen'ka, except perhaps _do svidaniya_."

" _Do vstrechi_ , Kiryushok."

He moved around her to head for the door. He'd had a long, cold and highly unproductive night, and now it was time to go home, to a hot bath and a good meal, then later on, a comfortable and spacious bed. Perhaps with a charming, willing companion in it to keep him nice and warm.

Such a pity that companion wouldn't be his deadly spider…

He paused as he reached for the handle and turned back to his former partner and lover. He would probably never see her again, so there was one other thing he wanted to say. "Natashen'ka?" he called out.

"Yes, Kirill?"

"You are still the most beautiful woman in all the Russias."

He graced her with a final grin.

"And I am absolutely delighted to see that you still have your wonderful bite."


End file.
